Certain Dark Things
by Saucery
Summary: Peter Hale is the best-worst father-husband ever.


Notes:

...I do not even know. Vertigo mentioned a "Peter raises Stiles to be his mate" scenario in which Peter goes as far as "slashing the Jeep's tires to make sure Stiles stays home," and, yeah. That's pretty much the source of this. Lay the blame entirely at Vertigo's door, would you? 'Cause this? _Ain't my fault._

Also, I'm not sure what happened to Sheriff Stilinski, here, but he must've passed away a while ago if the Hales got to adopt Stiles when they did. So let's just go along with that, shall we? DISBELIEF, YOU ARE SUSPENDED. _Expelled_, even. Yeah.

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><p><strong>CERTAIN DARK THINGS<strong>

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><p>And, man, Stiles had thought <em>Derek<em> was bad, with the stalking and the shadowing and the general creepitude, but Peter is even_worse_.

_Way_ worse.

It's like being Bluebeard's wife, or possibly Bluebeard's _daughter_, and Stiles isn't sure which is freakier. Or sadder. Because Stiles's life is becoming really, really freaky. And really, really sad.

"Where were you?" asks Peter, all smiley and Stepford-friendly and _nice_, like he doesn't goddamn well _know_ where Stiles was, and like he hasn't _slashed the Jeep's tires_ to ensure that Stiles can't, actually, go far.

Bastard.

Stiles ignores him and heads for the fridge, which is stocked with enough red meat and milk to feed a small army (of humans) or a small pack (of werewolves). He pulls out the milk and chugs straight from the carton, and he'll be damned if he'll listen to another one of Peter's lectures on _manners_, but it turns out that Peter's just…

…watching him swallow.

Watching Stiles's _throat_ swallow.

Stiles coughs - splutters - and puts the milk back in the fridge.

The guy even ruins his quiet acts of rebellion, how cruel is _that_?

"Where were you, Stiles?" Peter asks again, fucking _gently_, even though his teeth are a little longer and his eyes are _definitely_ a little redder. Shit.

"You know. Around."

"Around?"

"You can smell it on me, can't you?"

"Hm. Fast food. Linoleum." Peter's brows lower. "Boys."

"It was the _lacrosse team_. We were just having burgers, okay? And I had to explain to everyone why I showed up panting like I'd just run a _marathon_, because apparently I live in the fucking forest and have to _jog to town_ because my adoptive werewolf father-husband slashed the tires on my fucking _Jeep_."

Peter hums with amusement. "If that was the explanation you'd really given them, their reactions would have been entertaining."

"Ent - everyone thinks I'm _insane_! Or just seriously unlucky, because stuff of mine keeps disappearing! Including my _car_! I told them it'd broken down, but I can only say that for so long!"

"Next time, say it's stolen."

"But it _isn't_ stolen. It's sitting in our backyard. Collecting _rust_."

"I believe we agreed that you do not require any means of transportation that allows you to violate curfew. Like you did, once."

"It was _once_! And it doesn't qualify as an 'agreement' if it's just one person doing the agreeing! It's the sound of one hand clapping, not that I oughta waste my metaphors on _you_."

"Stiles." Peter reaches across the kitchen counter, and, like, _takes his hand_. "You know that I only want to protect you."

"This isn't protecting, it's _strangling_."

A curious light enters Peter's eyes.

"Oh, _no_. Whatever you're thinking - whatever depraved fantasy you're _having_ - we are _not_ trying that out."

Peter's thumb brushes his wrist. Over and over. Stiles does _not_ shiver. "There are still two years before you come of age. I had promised not to take you before then, and I haven't."

"Uh, yeah, but the way you _undress me with your eyes_ and think about _strangling_ me? For _fun_? Not very reassuring, there."

"I will never do anything to hurt you."

"You hurt my Jeep, you hurt _me_. End of story."

"You hurt me terribly, too, Stiles, when you go out of a night and return with the scent of other males upon you."

Stiles _boggles_. "What, d'you think the lacrosse team is _gang-banging_ me, or something? Are you _insane_?"

"I know that there are at least one or two that want you. I can smell it."

"Right." Stiles raises a dubious eyebrow. "Are you sure you're not having, what do they call 'em, olfactory hallucinations? 'Cause I read up on that. For Psych class."

"Your constant diligence in educating yourself is one of your charms, but I'm afraid others are also aware of them."

"Okay, man, you just keep deluding yourself. I'll be over here, in the sane corner, doing sane things like being _horrified and appalled_. Also, could you let go of me? I need to do my homework."

"You're such a good boy," says Peter, with what looks like complete and utter _honesty_, and Stiles -

Stiles _flushes_. "Didn't you just say I was a slut?"

Peter's grip _tightens_. "No. I would _never_ insult my mate in that manner."

"Oh, yeah? Then what was that about me smelling of all those guys?"

"I know that you are loyal, Stiles, and that you always _will_ be, but - you are not safe. With them." Peter's voice gets a little growly on 'them', and Stiles's eyes widen.

"You're not going to _kill_ anyone, are you?"

Peter smiles his I'm-not-a-psychopath-no-really smile. "Of course not."

Stiles's heart is beating like a _rabbit's_. "Just. Don't, okay? We're in deep enough shit already, with all the crazy rumors floating around about how we're a family of creepy weirdos, and - and the worst part of it is that the rumors are _true_, but we really don't need the whole town thinking that we're serial killers, _too_, all right? Promise me."

Peter looks at him. Steadily.

"_Promise me._" He knows better than to tell Peter not to hurt people because he cares about them (usually, it has the exact opposite effect) or to tell Peter not to do it because it's _wrong_ (Peter has no concept of right and wrong). But he's gotta _try_.

"And what will I get in return?"

"What?"

"If I promise not to harm these… trespassers - "

"_Trespassers?_ What am I, a bit o' land? A secure compound?"

" - then what will you give me, in return?"

Stiles gulps. Peter still hasn't let go of his hand, and… it's not like it isn't obvious what he _means_. They've come to similar 'compromises' before, but - but it still makes Stiles _panic_, a little, whenever it comes to this. To one of Peter's negotiations involving pseudo-sexual contact. "How about a neck massage? You liked that the last time, right?"

"I found it nearly impossible not to mount you."

"Uh." Stiles's heart isn't just beating, anymore; it's _hammering_. And Peter can _hear_ it. "Wh-what?"

"Never fear. I did promise not to engage in sexual congress with you until you are eighteen."

"Ohmygod. I - "

"How about a kiss?"

"Didn't I already give you one, once?"

"I want it again. Technically, I am well within my rights to demand such minor intimacies at any time, but I have withheld myself, for I sense that you are still skittish."

"Ski - okay, now you're just making me sound like a baby _deer_. I'm not _skittish_, all right? I can take a kiss." At the look on Peter's face, he continues, "_and_ give one. Just - not out of the blue, and not - uh. Without a… a lead-up, or…"

"Stiles. You have been my chosen mate for nigh on fourteen months. During this time, I have behaved with perfect honor and discretion - "

"Sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night and stroking my _neck_ is discreet?"

" - but I want this. You will give it to me."

_Will_ give it to him? The hell with that. "You can't just - "

"You've reached an age where you're capable of arousal; I can scent it on you after one of your showers, or when you wake in the mornings. It is increasingly difficult for me to hold back - really, you must admire my self-control."

"Jesus H., are you smelling me _all the time_? Next thing, you'll be telling me you sniff my _undies_."

Peter goes strangely quiet.

Stiles can _feel_ the blood draining from his face. "No," he breathes, gripped by a sudden dizziness. "By all that is holy, _no_."

"Stiles - "

"I'm deeply, _deeply_ creeped out, man! Can't you just - perv on me like a normal pervert? From _inside your own head_?"

"That would be far less satisfactory."

"Than what? _Sniffing my underwear?_"

But Peter just looks fucking _Zen_, like he hasn't done anything weird, at all. Then again, he _also_ doesn't think it's weird to_disembowel_ any outsider that comes within touching distance of Stiles. Their marriage is going to be so fucked up. It'll probably get even weirder once they _are_ screwing.

"Remind me to get you some Psych books about dysfunctional relationships. You seriously need to read those. _I_ seriously need to read those. And possibly get a taser. Or a restraining order."

"You agreed to be my mate."

"Yeah, god knows why - "

"Kiss me."

Stiles stares.

"How precious are the lives of your friends to you?"

"Are you buying my kisses with people's _blood_?" It's kind of flattering, honestly, except that it's also _terrifying_. He almost wishes Derek were here, because Derek's at least five percentage points _saner_ than Peter is, and he'd probably tell Peter - in a totally respectful, Beta-to-Alpha way - that maybe it isn't the best idea for Peter to coerce his future mate and Derek's future _pack mother_ into necking.

"If it serves."

"You - I can't - " Stiles huffs out a breath. "Fine. Fine, all right? Here, I'll give you one."

Peter actually looks _startled_ when Stiles darts in to kiss him - a quick, light kiss - and it's so funny to see that expression on Peter's face that Stiles _snorts_.

Peter's eyes _narrow_. Oh, crap.

"That," says Peter, "was not a real kiss."

"Uh, no, it was. There was totally lip-contact going on, there. That was a _kiss_, okay, and nothing on god's green earth is going to convince me otherwi - "

Except that Peter _actually kissing him_ can apparently convince him otherwise. Because Peter's just yanked on his wrist and made Stiles sort of stagger and fall onto Peter's _mouth_, which snatches at him like the beak of a giant bird of _prey_, and suddenly, he's lifted into movement and fever and _heat_ -

He's groaning. He's _groaning_, and he has no clue how this happened but apparently his hands are now shaking on Peter's_shoulders_, and he isn't even sure if he's pushing Peter away or pulling him close or sort of just… hovering uselessly, and Peter makes a sound in his mouth that sounds a lot like an aborted growl and _slows_ the kiss, with a deliberate, steely sort of control that seems fucking _bizarre_ in this context, but there it is, and there _Peter_ is, and there Peter's _tongue_ is, slow-careful-hot and licking the insides of his mouth, and a tremble starts beneath Stiles's skin that feels like a subliminal premonition of an_earthquake_, like if he lets Peter keep kissing him like that, he's going to fall _apart_ -

"N-no. _No_," he manages, when Peter gives him space to breathe, and then Peter _isn't_ giving him space to breathe, because Peter doesn't like being told 'no', and Peter knows - _has_ to know - that Stiles's _dick_ is saying yes, that his entire _body_ is saying yes, molten hot like a struck iron and _reverberating_ with the force of being struck, sweat springing up on his skin and, fuck, he can smell himself, he can smell his own sweat and taste his own spit as Peter feeds it _back_ to him -

"Nn," and then Peter's hand is on the back of his neck, hard and gentle and huge and _warm_, and Peter's an overpowering whiff of aftershave and leather jacket and his stubble fucking _burns_, and his mouth's _eating_ at Stiles, tender, cruel bites and and long, strangely canine licks that move from Stiles's swollen, stinging mouth to his cheek, to his _throat_, and Stiles _should_ speak, now, but the only noises he seems able to produce are shocked, stuttering gasps and cut-off moans, because the bites on his throat are _sharper_, more fanged, and it's entirely like being pinned by some massive beast and _mauled_, except that he's being mauled_carefully_, like Peter's trying not to break his skin, trying not to break _him_ -

He's hard, he's fucking _hard_, and if this goes on he's going to come in his _pants_ -

Peter seems determined to _make_ him come in his pants -

- and then the door creaks open.

Stiles doesn't notice it, at first, except in the momentary tensing of Peter's shoulders, but the split-second after it involves Peter pulling _back_, slightly, and Stiles can't help the questing, helpless sound he makes or the way his hips _arch_, the way his whole_body_ arches -

"Derek," says Peter, and the word's so _senseless_ to Stiles's brain that he still doesn't notice, that he tries to kiss Peter _again_ -

"Uncle," replies another voice, and _that's_ when Stiles gets it, when he stiffens and goes cold all over, except for his dick, which still aches and burns like a goddamn _sprain_ -

"You choose interesting times to return."

Stiles blinks, dazedly, and realizes that he's somehow ended up pressed to the kitchen counter, with Peter right up against him, caging him in. He looks over at the door, and yeah, that's Derek, looking perfectly calm, like maybe catching his Alpha molesting his still-underage would-be mate isn't that big of a deal. Hell, maybe for werewolves, it _isn't_, but for Stiles, it fucking _is_, okay? He wants to sink into the floor and take what must be his obvious hard-on and his obvious sex-smell with him, and stay _down_there, possibly forever, until the rest of the world forgets he _exists_.

Peter won't forget, though. Peter'll hunt him down in the depths of the _underworld_.

The thought is _not_ comforting.

"I only return when my duties are done," says Derek, and he's just _standing_ there, legs slightly apart, relaxed, but there's a sharpness to his eyes - a blue-ringed, glinting sharpness. "Stiles is still sixteen. Uncle."

"Are you saying that I was about to break my oath?" And, fuck, Peter's eyes are _red_ - his _fangs_ are out - no, wait, they'd already been out _before_, Stiles had _felt_ them, but they sure as heck are bigger, _now_ -

"Of course not," says Derek. "I am merely stating a fact."

They stare at each other.

Or rather, _Stiles_ stares at them _while_ they stare at each other, and it's _exactly_ like being in the middle of a fucking thundercloud before a _storm_, and, shit, he has to stop this, because when Peter and Derek throw down with each other, it always bodes _ill_ for the pack -

"Hey, now," says Stiles, and tries not to _jump_ when both sets of eyes - freaky, rabid werewolf eyes - swing to fix on him. "I'm - I'm okay. This was just… a kiss, okay? I'm _fine_, Derek." _Also, I'm _hard_, so maybe you two could stop having your cowboy showdown long enough for me to sneak away and jerk off?_ He can't _say_ that, of course, but maybe his _face_ says it, because Derek looks at him for a long, drawn-out moment - and grunts. Grunt-laughs, maybe - you can never tell, with Derek's laughs.

"So he says," murmurs Peter, smiling at Derek, and it's only the smile of I-will-make-you-hurt-for-this-_later_-and-in-subtle-ways-that-you-cannot-possibly-imagine as opposed to the smile of I-will-make-you-hurt-for-this-_now_-and-in-ways-that-involve-your-_entrails_, so it's all good. Maybe.

Even though it _had_ been a hell of a lot more than a kiss. It had been Peter holding him still and fucking his _mouth_, and then doing things to his throat that made the lame, geeky part of Stiles's brain flash desperately back to mating scenes from wildlife documentaries, and, Jesus, if Peter had said he'd found it 'almost impossible' not to 'mount' Stiles _before_, he sure as hell had been about to do it, _now_.

And the way Peter's looking at him - _still_ looking at him - says that, too. Peter's eyes are no longer blood-red, now that Derek isn't challenging his AUTHORITAR, or whatever - but they're still glowing, like quiet embers, and they take in Stiles's mouth (which probably looks, pardon the analogy, bee-stung) and his pupils (which are probably still blown) and the spot just under Stiles's ear (which must look like it's been _attacked_, because it sure _stings_ that way) like maybe he'd like to do _more_. A lot more. Preferably with Stiles naked and writhing and coming all over himself.

It's a… compelling image, and Stiles really _is_ going to have to jack off, or he'll have an embarrassing 'accident' if he so much as brushes against a stray surface. His erection hasn't actually gone down, mostly because Peter's still _smoldering_ at him - still fucking him with his _eyes_ -

"Cover it up," says Peter, and Stiles starts.

"Huh?"

"Wear a turtleneck. To school. Tomorrow."

"Dude, it's _summer_ - "

"Wear it," says Peter. "And skip lacrosse."

"_What?_"

"I'll write you a note."

"I don't want no stinkin' note! I wanna play my game!"

"He has a point, Stiles," says Derek, and just… swans into the kitchen, which is just plain _wrong_, because Stiles should _not_ have a hard-on in the same room as another pack member. With Derek, it's somehow even more wrong than it would be with Scott. Or_Jackson_. "You can't use the changing room, marked-up like that."

"Or what, they'll think I have the world's most sadomasochistic girlfriend? …Er." Reminding Derek of his sadomasochistic girlfriend - his sadomasochistic _ex_-girlfriend - his sadomasochistic, _dead_ ex-girlfriend - that Peter _killed_ - isn't exactly the best idea.

Thankfully, Derek ignores him. And takes what looks like the entire hind-quarter of a _cow_ out of the fridge. Gross.

So, basically, Stiles is going to have swelter in the heat all day tomorrow, and he's going to have to skip lacrosse, and Coach will call him a loser, again, and the rest of the team will think he's a pansy-ass damsel with health problems, because his guardian keeps writing him _notes_.

Great. Just _great_. "Gee, thanks, _Daddy_," Stiles says to Peter, sarcastically, and Peter's mouth twitches. The guy finds this _amusing_. When Stiles becomes a proper werewolf, he's totally going to punch the living daylights out of Peter. At least _once_.

But for now? All he does is slip out from under Peter, slink along the counter in a way that (hopefully) keeps his hard-on at least_visually_ if not olfacatorily concealed, and escapes to the bathroom.

Where he jerks off.

And if Peter can smell it on him, later, and know that he can't _have_ it, yet - can't _taste_ it, yet - that's just too bad. Too fucking_bad_, and, shit, he probably shouldn't come, thinking of that, but he does.

He _does_.

Again.

And again.

And again.

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><p><strong>fin.<strong>  
>Please review!<p>

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><p><span>Further Notes<span>

The title is based on the following poem by Pablo Neruda:

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,  
>or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.<br>I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
>in secret, between the shadow and the soul.<p>

- _One Hundred Love Sonnets_, "XVII".


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